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<title>you can mend a heart that's frail and torn (i'm worn) by lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075362">you can mend a heart that's frail and torn (i'm worn)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds'>lostandlonelybirds (RUNNFROMTHEAK)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman (Comics), Grayson (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Dick Grayson Has Daddy Issues, Dick Grayson cares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Jason Todd, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jason Todd Deserves Better, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd Has Daddy Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, M/M, POV Dick Grayson, Past Character Death, Pining Dick Grayson, Post-Red Hood and the Outlaws #25, Pre-Slash, Protective Dick Grayson, References to Forever Evil (Comics), References to Nightwing #30, Self-Esteem Issues, Trauma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:15:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,772</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26075362</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RUNNFROMTHEAK/pseuds/lostandlonelybirds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“My biggest mistake was coming back. That made me human. That made me not perfect. That hurt his rep, ruined the pretty little tale he’d conjured in his head. His little pedestal he’d build for self-flagellation after patrol. Don’t you see Dickie? The whole family loved me as a corpse. They didn’t love me when I came back filling graves with criminals. Even you…”</p><p>Jason gives a self-depreciating laugh, hugging himself and looking down.</p><p>“Even you.”</p><p>A Good Soldier but not A Good Son.</p><p>***</p><p>Not all wounds are skin deep, and some conversations have been a long time coming.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dick Grayson &amp; Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson &amp; Jason Todd, Dick Grayson &amp; Roy Harper, Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Jason Todd &amp; Bruce Wayne, Jason Todd &amp; Roy Harper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>619</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>JayDick Summer Exchange 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>you can mend a heart that's frail and torn (i'm worn)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/DDDemosthenes_1986/gifts">DDDemosthenes_1986</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I could not RESIST this prompt! I really hope you enjoy this little treat! It's not quite as long as I wanted it to be, but I am very pleased with the results!!! </p><p>Thank you so much to the mods for hosting this amazing event and for everyone for writing such fabulous pieces! I had a blast coming up with this, because these boys deserve better! &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“What the hell are you doing here, Grayson?”</p><p>Roy’s arms are crossed in front of him, jade eyes narrowed on Dick like he’s the enemy. He’s used to these types of confrontations after years of them. Always the accusations, always the pointed words and painful truths. He’s used to it, but it still hurts. Good thing this isn’t about him.</p><p>“Jason,” he manages to bite out, trying to push aside the flickering image of Bruce’s eyes on the monitors, Jason’s blood spilling helplessly across the rooftop, because those aren’t <em>helpful</em>. Those aren’t things he needs to think about, not when Jason’s…not when…</p><p>“Jason <em>what</em>.”</p><p>“I’m here for Jason.”</p><p>Roy barks out a laugh, smiling a mocking sort of grin that twists Dick’s insides.</p><p>“That’s cute,” he says. “Real cute. Come to finish your daddy’s handiwork? Here to spit your hypocritical bull about <em>morality</em> and not <em>killing</em>?”</p><p>Dick shivers. He’s not dressed for the fall winds, especially not this late at night. He hadn’t had time to throw on a sweater, he’d barely had time to throw on pants. His shirt has countless tears and holes in it and is thread bare and worn. Normally, he’d call it “well-loved” but, unsurprisingly, the love is not doing him any good in terms of body heat and his lack thereof. Dick should’ve grabbed a jacket, but Alfred’s call had woken him up from the first sleep in days, and Jason’s more important than the cold.</p><p>“I don’t care about that.” Dick doesn’t. He’s so sick of caring about that. It had never been about the scum Jason kills, past or present, it had been about Jason. Jason tearing himself apart. Jason self-destructing. Jason going past a point of turning back. Penguin being dead or not dead means nothing to Dick, because this isn’t about Penguin.</p><p>Roy cocks his head at Dick, lips ticked upwards like he’s still laughing at Dick.</p><p>“That’d be a first.”</p><p>“Roy, I never wanted—”</p><p>“Don’t.”</p><p>His lips are a flat line again, deathly still without a hint of humor. A stark contrast from the Speedy of his youth, or even the Red Arrow he’d trusted with his life. A lot has changed in the last few years. <em>Everything</em> has changed in the last few years.</p><p>“<em>He killed my <strong>baby</strong>, Dick! He killed my little girl!”</em></p><p>
  <em>Dick eyes his friend cautiously, taking in the blood-coated hands and spatter staining Roy’s dress shirt he’d worn to Lian’s funeral </em>
</p><p>“<em>Roy, you went too far.”</em></p><p>
  <em>Bits and pieces of Prometheus are all anyone can find, thanks to Oliver Queen’s interference. No one cares to find a psychopath’s killer, after all.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jade eyes meet his, glinting like sparks off a wildfire.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>“I didn’t go far <strong>enough</strong>.”</em>
</p><p>Unspoken, the memory hangs between them. The start of the end, Dick has always thought. Lian’s death had fucked all the Titans up in unique ways, Roy most of all.</p><p>“I need to see him,” Dick says instead of any of the hundreds of things he <em>should</em> say. Apologies. Pleas. A simple ‘I miss you’. None of them will go over well, not with Roy. He’s not Dick’s Speedy anymore. “I have to make sure he’s…”</p><p>Alive. Not dead again. Not the future reason for Dick murdering one Bruce Wayne, which he’s been tempted to do on <em>several </em>occasions and had definitely not been plotting on the way over. No ma’am.</p><p>“Fine.” Roy scoffs, pushing off from the wall and opening the front door with a mock bow. “Be my guest, your <em>highness</em>.”</p><p>Dick hazards an eye roll, mentally weighing the pros and cons of punching Roy. On one hand, satisfaction. On the other, being thrown out of Roy’s apartment would make it more difficult to quell that little flutter of panic sparked by watching Jason bleed, by watching Bruce… watching <em>Bruce</em>…</p><p>Nope. Not thinking about that yet. Not until he has something to hit and break and <em>hurt</em>. Because thinking means feeling, and feeling… He’s not ready to feel that yet.</p><p>Roy’s apartment is a bit of a mess. Clothes and case files litter the right half of the couch, with coffee mug rings stained into the tiny table in front of the TV. There’s a beaten-up bookshelf covered in books with sticky notes and dog-eared pages, colorful bursts poking from every side of the books with notes in a neat little scrawl Dick remembers from letters, back before Jason had died. The kitchen’s sparkling clean; not a dish in the sink, and not a bag out of place. There’s no alcohol bottles littering the floor, or discarded needles intact or broken (which Dick feels guilty for even <em>thinking </em>about when he’s here for Jason, not to judge Roy for past mistakes he hopes his ex-friend <em>left</em> in the past).</p><p>Roy sends him a look that lets him know his wandering eyes were noticed, but the bags under Roy’s eyes suggest he doesn’t have the energy to fight about that yet. Probably. For all Dick knows, he’s working up to it along with a dressing down of everything Dick’s ever done. Dick would not be surprised. Might even say he deserves it. Bruce has been steadily getting worse the last few years, and Dick had been trying to keep it from everyone else, trying to take the heat off the rest of the “family” so no one else got hurt. Just him. He’s always fine so long as it’s <em>just</em> him. But he hadn’t been there, and Jason had. So Jason… Jason took the pain that’s only supposed to belong to Dick. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“This isn’t a castle, princess, so you should be able to find your way to Jay’s room without a humble servant’s help,” Roy snarks, giving another mocking bow with a fake grin.</p><p>Dick shakes his head, watching the redhead collapse on the couch and pull an arrow off the table to fiddle with. Dick knows when he’s not wanted, and it’s not like he <em>wants</em> to hang out with a hostile Roy. Not right now.</p><p>He takes a deep breath and steps into the narrow hallway, trying not to panic. It’s been a battle he’s been losing since he’d first watched Bruce’s darkened features narrow on Jason, since the helmet had shattered on a desolate rooftop on the edge of Gotham and Jason’s blood painted the rooftop. Like an itch he can’t quite scratch, just under the surface of his skin.</p><p>One step down the hall and he hears a sigh, soft and mournful in the silent apartment. One look back at Roy confirms it isn’t him, so Dick takes another cautious step forward, footsteps quieter than they’ve ever been. The door’s a bright red in an otherwise mundane hallway, adorned by a spray-painted black skull like the ones littering Gotham’s downtown districts. It’s so <em>not</em> Jason that it <em>is</em> Jason, almost. He wonders if he’d done it as a nod to his death or because he likes skulls now. There’s so much about him Dick doesn’t know now, so many things Jason’s never <em>let</em> him learn.</p><p>Does he still like Hamlet? Is he still a die-hard Jane Austen fan? Does he relate to Emily Dickenson’s poetry the way Dick thinks he might? Does he still want to write a book and get his Masters in English?</p><p>There’s a thousand habits Dick had known, once. A thousand facts and faces and opinions and tastes he’d kept close at heart, memorialized like that godforsaken plaque (littering the cave floor somewhere Dick doesn’t care to look) and glass-encased suit from when Jason had died.</p><p>He’d wanted to learn more. He’s <em>always</em> wanted to learn more. But at some point between New York and being Batman and Damian dying and <em>Dick</em> dying, he’d stopped trying. He’d stopped thinking. He’d stopped wondering.</p><p>Well, not entirely. Thinking about Jason Todd is a habit Dick’s never quite been able to break.</p><p>Dick steps in front of the door and pauses, hand clenched in a loose fist as it hovers in front of the door. Roy hadn’t told him whether or not he should knock. Whether or not Jason would be <em>awake</em>. Should he knock? Should he <em>not</em>? He’s not even sure how Jason will feel about him being here. Dick’s not even sure how <em>he</em> feels about being here. It feels right, kind of. It feels like something he wants to do, and something he <em>should</em> do. But he’s hesitant. He’s hesitant about a lot of things, now. Now that people have died for him. Now that <em>he</em> has died. Caution’s a skill he hadn’t appreciated properly before, but Dick appreciates it a lot more now.</p><p>“Fuck it,” he mutters under his breath, and raps on the door three times. Immediately, he hears a cough, and some sheets shuffling as Jason moves. There’s a pause, Dick holding his breath and hoping that Jason hasn’t somehow developed the ability to hear Dick’s pounding, nervous heart through the door, when Jason snorts.</p><p>“Roy, I said to <em>leave it</em> for now.”</p><p>Dick sighs.</p><p>“It’s Dick,” He says, awkwardly adding, “Grayson” after a beat. He’s such an idiot sometimes. He embarrasses himself.</p><p>“Dick?” Jason sounds wary through the door, and Dick wishes he could see Jason’s face. It’s hard to read him as is, but it’s damn near impossible when there’s a door between them and no body language to attempt to decipher.</p><p>“Yep,” he replies, popping the ‘p’ like a teen with bubblegum. “It’s me.”</p><p>Dick presses a light hand to the door, ear hovering over it to hear better.</p><p>“What do you want?”</p><p>Jason’s tone is glacial, and Dick can picture the so typical glare on his face.</p><p>“I want to make sure you’re okay. Alfie told me about the big showdown, and I caught some of it on the news and I—” Dick swallows the lump in his throat, trying not to think about what could have been, what almost <em>was</em>. “I was scared.”</p><p>“Of daddy dearest?”</p><p>“No. I’m never scared of him. I was scared for you.”</p><p>The red door shudders open and slams into the wall with a loud <em>thud</em>, fast enough that it almost hits Dick before he can spring back. Jason’s piercing green eyes beckon him from the darkness, and it takes Dick’s eyes a moment to adjust. Jason’s shirtless and in boxers, a detail that Dick’s eyes note against his will as he processes the bruises scattered across a landscape of scars. Reds and purples and blues covered in so many bandages Jason could pass as a mummy in the glow of moonlight, and a corpse in the harsh light of day.</p><p>Dick isn’t quite able to stifle the gasp that escapes him, and he isn’t quite able to catch his hand before it moves to the jagged stitches across Jason’s jaw and cheek, fingers tracing the ridges with a sort of horrified fascination. Jason, surprisingly enough, doesn’t stop him. He allows the touch, eyes tracing the motion with a reserved sort of caution. Jason feels off, off in a way that throws Dick off-balance. He’s not angry, not like in the aftermath of Spyral. He’s not cold, not like he’s been in months past. He’s not even indifferent, not like he’d been when he first came back.</p><p>Dick doesn’t know what to do with the look in Jason’s eyes, the soft crinkle around his bruised eyes, the gentle slant of his mouth as Dick commits each injury to memory. It’s indecipherable, something Dick’s never known on Jason’s face.</p><p>“How do you feel?” he asks, placing one hand over Jason’s heart to feel his heartbeat.</p><p>“Like I went a few rounds with Bane before Killer Croc took over.”</p><p>“Mmm so the typical Tuesday patrol feeling?”</p><p>Jason gives a laugh that makes Dick’s gut tie itself in knots, all sorts of warm fuzzy thoughts he has to push through and pretend don’t exist triggered.</p><p>“Just about.”</p><p>Dick swallows again, pulling his hand away and letting it hang awkwardly at his side.</p><p>“Can I come in?”</p><p>Jason sighs, stepping back into the room and allowing Dick through.</p><p>“Sure. Why not.”</p><p>Dick breezes past him, taking in the soft glow of Jay’s lamp in the corner as the door shuts behind him. A few books teeter precariously on the nightstand, next to a glass of water and a few painkillers Jason hasn’t taken yet. A photo of Batman and Red Hood eating burgers on top of the Batmobile sits framed on the windowsill, but the frame’s held together with duct tape and the glass is shattered, like it had been thrown against a wall.</p><p>“I know you said you were here to check in on me,” Jason starts, leaning back against the wall in an obvious attempt to appear more at ease than he actually is, “but you can’t be too unhappy with B’s little punishment. I killed Cobblepot, after all.”</p><p>Dick sighs, running a hand through his hair and thinking about which of the hundreds of thoughts he should voice, how exactly he should convey his disapproval of Bruce without making this about him. It’s not about him, and it’s important he keeps it that way. Even if it’s a bit…difficult to distance himself from the situation.</p><p>“First of all, no. You didn’t. Cobblepot lives to be a piece of shit another day. And second, why the <em>fuck</em> would I be okay with that? Why would I be even <em>slightly</em> okay with B playing general when I’ve never been okay with that?”</p><p>Jason gives him a half-grin, looking older than Dick’s ever seen him look. It’s so easy to forget how young Jason is. How young <em>Dick </em>is. He feels so old, they all <em>seem</em> so old, burdened with the weight of an entire city and sometimes the entire planet. Forced to grow up too fast, victims of tragedy in different ways. Bruce hadn’t ever helped with that, always wanting them to grow faster, be<em> more</em> than they were.</p><p>“You’re the perfect son, aren’t you? Golden Boy. Robin. Nightwing. Batman. Everything Bruce ever wanted in a son. And then I came along and—"</p><p>Jason chokes, shaking his head and giving a sad little smile that breaks Dick’s heart.</p><p>“Black sheep, remember? Damned Prince of Gotham, whatever it is they feel like calling me. The <em>wrong</em> son. The fuck up. The <em>bad </em>Robin. Cautionary tale to all the underaged crime fighters. That’s what I’m remembered for, right? My death?”</p><p>“Little Wing—”</p><p>“I’m the street rat. I’m the thief, the criminal-in-the-making B took pity on. I didn’t lead the Titans. I didn’t create a mantle. I didn’t take on my own city or become Batman for the right reasons. I was a snot-nosed kid in over his head with hearts in his goddamn eyes because someone seemed to want me.”</p><p>Dick takes a cautious step towards Jason, who avoids eye contact. He reaches out towards him, but pauses, thinking it’s better not to push it. Not with Jason so unpredictable.</p><p>“You’ve never been a bad Robin, Jay. You were a great Robin.”</p><p>Jason snorts.</p><p>“So that’s why B spent so much time correcting me on my form. Telling me you learned it faster. Telling me what you would’ve done different. <em>Dick would never let himself get this angry,</em> he’d tell me, like there weren’t <em>children</em> being fucking sold. Every minute I spent in your shoes I was told I didn’t deserve it, that I wasn’t good enough. Any time I did somethin’ right it didn’t matter ‘cause <em>you</em> had done it first. Only thing I did right was die. It set me apart in B’s mind. Made me different. Special. Important. Perfect, in a way.”</p><p>Dick thinks of that glass-encased suit, covered in dried blood and shrapnel from the bomb that had killed Jason before the blood loss could. He thinks of the plaque, the one he’d taken down the second he could.</p><p><em>A Good Soldier</em> but not <em>A Good Son</em></p><p>“Your death hurt Bruce a lot, Jay. It hurt us all. He was a mess. Alfie was a mess. I was a mess.”</p><p>Jay’s green eyes dim as they lock on to Dick’s.</p><p>“I was perfect in death, Pretty Bird. I couldn’t mess with his rep. I couldn’t fail him. Couldn’t slip up and kill someone like he used to think I would. I was the poor little orphan damned from the start with a druggie mom and an abusive dad. I was the poor little sidekick dumb enough to get himself blown up. I was perfect because he could love me like he loves his parents. He could hurt himself with me, brood in his dark corner about his fuck up and use it as motivation to be Batman. The biggest mistake I ever made in B’s eyes wasn’t dying.”</p><p>Jason smirks, tracing the autopsy scar cut across his chest, harsh and ugly in its rigidness.</p><p>“My biggest mistake was coming back. That made me human. That made me <em>not</em> perfect. That hurt his rep, ruined the pretty little tale he’d conjured in his head. His little pedestal he’d build for self-flagellation after patrol. Don’t you see Dickie? The whole family loved me as a corpse. They didn’t love me when I came back filling graves with criminals. Even you…”</p><p>Jason gives a self-deprecating laugh, hugging himself and looking down.</p><p>“Even you.”</p><p>Dick’s heart’s pounding in his throat, a painful sort of rhythm he’s choking on. It’s hard. Hearing those words from Jason, those kinds of thoughts. Thoughts that make a sick sort of sense, thoughts that shouldn’t linger but do. Dick’s familiar with those kinds of thoughts. All too familiar.</p><p>He wants to hug Jason, wants to hold him and tell him how <em>wrong</em> he is, how <em>amazing </em>he really is. How in awe Dick is with the man Jason’s turned into. How much Dick cares. How hard Jason’s death had hit him. But he doesn’t have the right words. Doesn’t know them. He never seems to.</p><p>“Even me what?”</p><p>Jason shrugs, fingers white where they dig into his arms.</p><p>“You only care ‘cause I died. We weren’t close before it. You were nice, and sure, we had a few good hang outs, but we weren’t brothers. We weren’t <em>friends</em>. We weren’t really anything.”</p><p>“I still cared, Little Wing. I care so <em>much</em>—”</p><p>“And <em>that</em> is the problem, Dick! That right there!”</p><p>Jason takes a step towards Dick, the kind of step meant to be intimidating, but Dick holds his ground, chin stuck out defiantly. Jason’s taller than him now, 6’3 to his own 5’8. Dick had never quite managed that growth spurt he’d always told Bruce he’d get, but Jason’s never had that problem. Jason’s a fucking <em>tank</em>, all muscle in the best way possible (Dick’s always had a thing for people that can snap him in half without breaking a sweat).</p><p>“What is?” Dick whispers, tilting his head up to look at Jason. His eyelashes cast shadows Dick can see, this close. Shadows across a constellation of freckles he’s never really noticed before, like so many things about Jason.</p><p>Jason smiles bitterly.</p><p>“You’ve got a big heart, Pretty Bird. Bigger than you know what to do with. Why do you think you’re the only one Demon Brat really loves? Why do you think we were all so pissed about your death? All us regular bats are fucked up. Cynical. Cold. Hardened. But not you. <em>Never </em>you. I don’t know the kind of trauma you got locked in that head of yours, but it doesn’t touch you. Not the way it touches the rest of us. You care about me ‘cause I died. You care because you feel like you didn’t care enough before, because you think hugs and kisses can save me from myself and all that.”</p><p>Jason spreads his arms out wide, inviting Dick to stare, examine. He looks so fragile, like a broken shield on a war-torn battlefield. Strong, yes, but fundamentally changed. Vulnerable.</p><p>“Have a look, Goldie. I’m fucked up. I’ve <em>always</em> been fucked up since day one. To you, I’m a walking talking tragedy your hero complex needs to fix, but there <em>is</em> no fixing me. B knows that. You should, by now. I’m not a hero. Never will be.”</p><p>The words come to Dick in waves, thoughts and feelings he’s so <em>sick</em> of hiding, so <em>sick</em> of pretending he doesn’t feel bursting to the surface like a dormant volcano taking its first breath.</p><p>“I’m not perfect,” Dick starts, mouth dry and tongue leaden. Jason gives him a look, so he repeats the words. “I’m not perfect. I’m not. I don’t know why everyone’s always thought that. I got fired first, you know. I got thrown out. Bruce told me I wasn’t Robin anymore because he couldn’t trust me. He made me leave my keys with Alfred, take my stuff and go. He cut me off, and it was pretty easy to do that seeing as he’d never adopted me.”</p><p>He sighs, setting a hand on Jason’s cheek and forcing him to look. To listen. Golden Boy his <em>ass</em>. He’s always hated that nickname, hated it more than anything.</p><p>“I’ve never been perfect, and Bruce is delusional if he thinks I was. We had our issues, same as him and Tim had their issues, same as me and Damian had our issues. It wasn’t fair of Bruce to put that on you and you <em>were not a bad Robin</em>. You were Robin in a way I wasn’t, in a way Tim and Dami and even Steph weren’t. Each Robin brings something new to the table, and that doesn’t mean it’s better or worse than what was there already. I started this mantle as a tribute to my parents, and you made it your own. Tim made it his own. Steph and Dami made it their own.”</p><p>Dick smiles, a soft fond smile he doesn’t have many reasons to give lately. His thumb strokes Jason’s cheek gently, feeling warmth shoot through him at every brush of skin against skin.</p><p>“Yes, I do think I should’ve been there more before you died. Yes, I regret it more than I can ever say. But that has very little to do with how I feel now. I care about you because you’re Jason Todd. Because you took the worst the world had to throw at you, and only became <em>stronger</em> for it. Because you never broke. Because you’re still that same kid with a big heart who just wanted to make the world a better place. Jason… Little Wing…”</p><p>Dick lets his hands drop to the bandages scattered across Jason’s chest, the white gauze wrapped tight around his ribs that are no doubt cracked. It’s hard to see, hard to <em>feel</em>, and a few tears blur his vision just slightly.</p><p>“This isn’t okay. This would <em>never</em> be okay. Not to me. I don’t care about Bruce. I don’t care about Penguin. I care about <em>you</em>. I care that he <em>hurt</em> you. He’s not supposed to take it out on anyone but—”</p><p>“Anyone but you?”</p><p>Jason’s eyes are all too knowing, and the arm that’s not in a sling reaches up to cup Dick’s jaw.</p><p>“I’ve been wondering, you know. Sitting here in this room, feeling B’s anger on my skin, asking myself if this has happened before. Did he do something like this to one of the other birds, since open season on me is okay? It’s okay, so long as it’s you, right? That’s what you meant?”</p><p>Dick casts his gaze at the floor so Jason doesn’t see his eyes.</p><p>“That’s not what I meant.”</p><p>“It is what you meant. Dick, you don’t seem surprised B would do something like this. You told me you’re never afraid of him, but said you were afraid for me. Why would a son fear a father’s actions? Why would a son know his father’s darkness?”</p><p>Dick’s eyes flick back onto Jason’s face, horror leaving him rooted to the spot when all he wants to do is run.</p><p>“It’s not like that,” Dick manages. “He…”</p><p>“You told me you didn’t want to stay dead. Back when we all found out you were alive and playing James Bond for Spyral. You said you had to. That B asked you to. And I remember being so fucking mad that you'd drop all of us at one word from him, leave us to grieve and be miserable while you fucked off around the world, but something always felt just a little off. I was too fucking mad at you to look into it, too pissed and hurt, but now I’m thinking about it. And I’m thinking my gut was right. B never gave you a choice, did he?”</p><p>A single tear leaks down Dick’s cheek, and he doesn’t notice it until it’s already too late.</p><p>“Damian was <em>dead</em>, Jay. I couldn’t let anyone else die. I was… expendable.”</p><p>The word’s bitter in his mouth, but true.</p><p>“That what he told you? Or is that what you told yourself?”</p><p>“This isn’t <em>about </em>me.”</p><p>Jason’s eyes narrow.</p><p>“It’s about you and me and B and this entire fucked up family. This is about B thinking he can play father when we fuck up but fuck off at any other point in time. These bruises? They’re his. He beat the fuck out of me ‘cause I slipped up. I killed, and he can’t handle that. But this isn’t the first time he’s marked me, but it might be a bit worse.”</p><p>Jason leans his head to the side, peeling back some of the gauze wrapped over his neck and shoulders sloppily. A clean, precise line nearly blends in among the other wounds, new and old, but it’s something Dick recognizes. Something he’s seen on autopsy reports, when crooks tried to make Batman out to be a killer. A single slash, neat and even across the jugular. It’s all too similar.</p><p>“When—?”</p><p>“When I tried to kill the Joker.” Jason covers the mark back up, shoulders stiff. “I gave him a choice, and he picked something different and left me for the clown.”</p><p>Dick gives into the impulse this time, pulling Jason down and into a hug tighter than it should be with all those bandages. He hugs Jason and squeezes his eyes closed, desperate to stem off the flood of emotions he has no desire to confront.</p><p>“I was always there to take the hits Gotham couldn’t. Part of being the light to Batman’s dark means taking that darkness on. The older I became the rougher he got, and our fights turned physical instead of verbal. I always took it, took the pain so he didn’t have to hurt himself with it. But… it’s hard. It’s always been hard.”</p><p>Jason huffs out a laugh.</p><p>“B sure did a number on us, huh?”</p><p>Dick snorts.</p><p>“Yeah. Looks like.”</p><p>“Did you know? Did you know that he was going to—”</p><p>Jason doesn’t have to finish the thought; Dick already knows what he’s asking.</p><p>“No. I would’ve stopped it if I’d known.”</p><p>Jason hums, a sound Dick can feel pressed against him, breezing over his hair. Jason’s chin rests on his head naturally, and their bodies fit together like two puzzle pieces.</p><p>“It’s not your fault,” Jason says after a beat. “This? Me? Not your fault.”</p><p>Dick looks up at him, startled.</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Not everything’s your fault, Goldie. This isn’t.”</p><p>Dick breathes out.</p><p>“Bruce shouldn’t have hurt you.”</p><p>Jason smiles at him.</p><p>“I know. He never should have hurt you either.”</p><p>Dick shrugs, so Jason tilts his chin up, a soft look in his eyes that makes Dick melt.</p><p>“None of that now,” he chides gently. “Don’t make me hurt myself smacking sense into that pretty head of yours.”</p><p>“Please don’t,” Dick murmurs, just as soft. “Roy’s always hated bandaging people up. It makes him cranky. And if I’m hurt, he’ll be your only option.”</p><p>Jason chuckles.</p><p>“Yep. If there’s one thing I’ve learned working with him it’s his bedside manner is <em>shit</em>. All the more reason for you to not argue with the injured party right now.”</p><p>Dick gives him a cheeky salute.</p><p>“Sir yes sir.”</p><p>“Want to stay for dinner?”</p><p>Dick smiles.</p><p>“Only if you’re cooking. My talents remain outside the culinary field, tragically.”</p><p>Dick can tell Jason’s rolling his eyes above him.</p><p>“Golden Boy has flaws. I should take out a billboard.”</p><p>“Whatever makes you feel better, Little Wing.”</p><p>“And if that’s you letting go of me?”</p><p>Dick nuzzles his head under Jason’s in protest.</p><p>“My hugs are <em>magical</em>, Jay. You’ll feel better in no time.”</p><p>“Of that, Pretty Bird, I have no doubt.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>if you like this fic and want to support me + my writing feel free to check out my <a href="https://runnfromtheak.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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